Unchanged
by kind of brief
Summary: They always prosper, picking themselves up slowly but surely every time it changes, until they – them, theirs, they – are ubiquitous. They’re stubborn all right.


**unchanged**

_(Mankind is so goddamn stubborn, you know, says X._

_Y nods. And stupid, it adds._

_Hypocritical._

_Corrupt._

_And naïve._

_Not to forget, foolish._

_X is silent for a moment. And wise, it concedes grudgingly._

_Shut up, you two, chides the mighty Z. It looks ahead. Master's looking at you._

_Freak, X mutters under its breath.)_

--

The worn-out little Bengali school is two effortless gusts of wind away from collapsing. Inside, the students are perched on the hard, cold ground. Their butts ache painfully.

One second, the little Bengali girl, wide-faced and innocent, is staring at the ground bleakly while her teacher drones on about... something.

Next second, she's being shaken with an earth-shattering force. And not the metaphorical earth-shattering force, mind you.

Because there are real, big cracks in the hard, cold ground.

The school collapses. In her last moments, the girl has a fleeting vision of men with guns, sounds of screams, an axe, puffs of black_black_ smoke rising up...

She sees the Earth grimacing painfully, glaring, tables turning—

The cracks swallow up everything in her vision – _the Earth opening its mouth wide_ – (She's always been an imaginative kid).

(_She doesn't even have the time –_ (heart really) – _to scream.)_

--

In Los Angeles, California, a scruffy guy is smoking weed. Cheap indie music plays lightly in the background. In the wafty smoke, the Spanish girl is hot and smoking.

He watches her lazily. He takes a drag. Hm, she is looking his way. She winks. He takes another drag. His mother has been begging him to give it up. _Stop smoking, please,_ she's been saying. He scoffs. Yeah right. It's okay that I'm a pathetic alcoholic, but it certainly isn't okay that my son smokes.

_I'm trying to stop too, believe me. I'm trying so hard._ She's always saying that.

His answer has always been: Keep trying.

Then, suddenly, the ground's being plucked off—

Well. There you go, Alcoholic Mother Of Scruffy Guy. He'll never smoke again.

(His mother never really liked him.)

(NOTE: We're talking about _one _scruffy smoker here. And, let's just say, there's more than one scruffy smoker in California. Ha ha, right?)

--

For them, it's not so abrupt. Not exactly unrushed and slow, either. Just not so surreal.

They have the Arks. The Arks always work. Noah's Ark. Their Arks. Arks are always the answer. The Earth would be unsuccessful yet again.

They wouldn't back down.

The Earth always changes.

They always prosper, picking themselves up slowly but surely every time it does, until they – them, theirs, _they_ – are ubiquitous.

They're stubborn all right.

_(The Earth has long ago lost its right to decide who lives and who dies, OK? They reign supreme now.)_

--

—It's a battle of sorts.

--

Canada is lost. America is lost. And oh, behold, there goes Europe too! Whoop!

Taj Mahal, so magnificent in all its ravishing beauty, is being swept away by the wind and water and all like cotton balls. Or something. Who knew it was so weak? So utterly _weak_?

(Really, Shah Jahan?)

But they have the Arks. Hurray. The big, indestructible Arks. There, there; that ought to be a comforting thought, no?

Christ the Redeemer collapses. Eiffel Tower trembles violently. Great, just great. They'd have to do it all _again_?

Fucking great.

--

The water, the water! It's everywhere! Every_fucking_where!

Let's go!

NO! Run, baby, run!

Michael! Michael, come back! MICHAEL!

Wait—! Trish!

We have to get to the—

Screams.

Metal clinking together.

(All Michael's gone, all Ali's gone, all Rahul's gone, all Vladimir's gone, all Rico's gone, all Lee's gone.)

All gone. All gone, gone, _gone_.

Sobs. Tears. Pathetic. They're not supposed to show weakness. They're humans. NOT SUPPOSED TO SHOW WEAKNESS.

Just look at the water. So powerful and swift.

Look at the wind.

The mountains.

Earth is a manipulating bitch.

--

(Nearly everything is lost. An age of accomplishments and building and discovering and knowing and prospering and ruling lost. _Just like that_.)

--

They're alive.

There.

They've lived it.

Now, what, Earth? What're you gonna do next, eh?

--

(_OK, if they're so curious,_ _they might just get their answers._)

--

They're like ants, those humans. Or robots. Or something like that.

When it all stabilizes (in their words: _the Earth admits defeat),_ they're ready to do it all again. They're ready to take their position as the rulers of the Earth, and this time, with a new fervor.

Three months after the Earth admits defeat, they start building. Like ants. Or robots. In these three months, they've discovered about every single thing that's changed. They have all the answers to all the questions. Again.

They start cultivating lands that reek of their own blood. Half of the human race is dead beneath them, around them, everywhere. Rotting. Reeking. _Dead._

They know. But it's alright; they don't care. They'll build on death.

Wars start. Over oceans, over lands, over anything and everything.

One man kills another.

Masks are shed off. Walls are back up. And then, after everything, the pain suffered together in the past is forgotten, disappearing into a speck so tiny, so tiny. But, oh no, the vengeance shared together in the past is still there, lurking glumly.

So... so _human _of them, you know?

They're the same. Same pathetic, stupid, hypocritical, manipulating, foolish, wise people.

It was just another thing. The earthquakes, the tsunamis, the deaths and the destruction... just another thing.

The Great Change. It's not a change, after all. Not really.

_(Riiiiiiiiiing! – _death – _ Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! –_ death! – _Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!_

No one wakes up. Sigh._)_

Nothing's changed, nothing's changed, _nothing's changed._

(The Earth sighs, defeated.)

--

(_Well, there they go again, says X, shaking its head. Stupid humans._

_Stupid humans, Y agrees. They're still the same._

_Z sighs heavily. Master won't be so merciful next time. That _will _be their doom.)_

**--**

**Fin.**

--


End file.
